I know the bus stop is the same; nothing has really physically changed, yet everything feels a shade grayer. Numbly, I watch as the rush hour traffic whizzes by. I hear forced hellos as other waiting passengers approach. One guy has a scarf wrapped around his neck. “Is it cold?” I wonder. I reach up to feel my cheeks and am surprised at how icy they are. “Why is it that I can’t feel anything?” I mutter to myself. The bus squeals to a stop in front of me. People scramble to get on and I manage to drag myself off the bench.
“Lady, you forgot to pay,” the bus driver says, his voice rising. “Oh, right,” is my feeble apology and I fumble for some cash. I squish in next to an old black woman who is humming “Amazing Grace”. The bus rumbles as it pulls back on to the street. I take in the usual scene of weary people, tired from a long day on their feet. There is one kid hanging on his mamma’s knee with one hand and clinging to a red balloon with the other. His big brown eyes stare back at me without hesitation. Other than the red balloon, the sights and smells are the same. However, it has become a soundless world as fragments of his voice swirl in my head.
“Baby, it was just drinks.” you insisted.
“I saw you touching her hand, do you think I’m blind? And you can’t tell me that it doesn’t mean anything!”
“It didn’t! My hand touched hers, big deal! It’s not like she’s my girlfriend. You are. I don’t understand why this is such a big deal.”
“I don’t understand why you think it’s not!” I squeaked out as I tried to calm myself. “Listen, I need you to be square with me. Do ‘drinks’ happen often with this woman, or any other for that matter?”
It seemed like a hundred minutes passed by before you even uttered a sound. But that was it. I didn’t need a sound after a hesitation like that. The silence spoke more clearly than seven paragraphs could have. Cold washed through my body and a wave of nausea quickly followed. I simply turned and walked towards the door.
“Wait a second. Babe! Wait,” as you ran after me and grabbed my shoulder. I let your hand stay there and the weight of it is burned in my mind. I could smell your hand, which didn’t smell like anything at all, just like your hand. “You haven’t even given me a chance to explain. I love you, I do! I love you in so many ways. But I don’t know if I love you in all the ways there is to love. I just need more time, more time with you.”
I said not a word but in my head I heard the screaming: “Seven years is NOT ENOUGH TIME??!?!”
“And how much time do you need, Greyson? I have given you seven years of my life. Not just years, Grey, but me. I have given you me. And you still have to have ‘drinks’ with other women because apparently my whole self is not enough.”
“It’s not you, sweetheart, it’s me. There’s something wrong with me. Look, we’ve dated on and off since high school and you’ve always been by my side. But I haven’t had a chance to make sure you are what I want. And don’t you want me to know for sure?” That’s when your arms engulfed me and pulled me to your familiar warmth. Tears began to fall from my tightly squeezed eyelids. I gave in one last time for a few seconds then pulled away and said “No. No. If I am giving my whole self and I am only getting a part of you, then that is not enough for me. And seven years is enough time for me.”
I watched your face as the shock registered. And then I turned and walked out. For the first time, I walked out.
"Was blind, but now I see," the lady next to me sings out loud now. I come out of my haze and look outside. I missed my stop. My neighbor pulls the line for the bus to stop and begins wrapping her scarf around her neck. "Iss gon' be a col' one tonigh'," she says, "I best be gettin' home to give my mista his pills. His bones be hurtin' tonigh' with dis col' one comin' on." She carefully exits the bus.
"Yo' mista been dead seven years now, Gwynnie, iss time to move on. Let go, chil', let go," the bus driver yells after her.
I watch the cold old woman slowly move down the street and see my reflection in the window. Let go, I say, let go.
